I think I must have fallen asleep next to my toilet, because I wake up on the hard tiles in the morning feeling even worse than I did when I got home yesterday. My old Ajax jersey has ridden up, meaning when I lie back down in a more comfortable position, I hiss at the coldness of the floor touching my exposed skin. I shiver.

Yesterday was one disaster after another. The usual half an hour journey from the training centre took triple the amount of time, because my taxi driver decided he wanted to take a detour to a Mercadona on the other side of the city and pick up his groceries before dropping me at my destination. When I finally got home, I got into bed in my sweaty kit and cried, forgetting to change my tampon and leaking all over my white sheets. I showered eventually, but I must have blacked out after that, because I remember deciding whether or not I was actually going to be sick, and nothing more.

Am I hungry enough to move from here?

The bathroom light has been on the whole night, so it's a miracle I had the sleep I did. I lift my hips up to check the state of the floor, finding exactly what I expected to be there. Red smeared across the grey tiles. Am I even wearing underwear?

Although most of the motivation to do normal hygiene things has escaped me, I ultimately decide that I should eat something. I stand up with great effort, finding my legs to be sore from the intensity of training in recent weeks, gripping the sink and letting go promptly when I see my hands have blood all over them. I don't have the energy to feel disgusted with myself.

My bag from training has been left open on my bed. I spare a glance at how dirty the sheets are, and carry on digging around in it to find those protein bars the nutritionist gave me to try out. The one yesterday tasted like I was eating cardboard, but surely the company won't have fucked up a simple chocolate flavour. It's not very nice, but it will do.

I discard the wrapper by simply letting go of it, watching as it falls to the floor. The toothbrush I stole from Alexia weeks ago is still at the bottom of my bag. I feel sick at the thought of using her toothbrush. Her saliva has been in my mouth. Gross.

Oh. Wait.

No, I actually do feel like I'm going to throw up.

I run back to the bathroom, returning to what feels like is going to be my new favourite place this week, head in the toilet. This jersey needs to be burned.

It's now midday.

I accidentally fell asleep beside the toilet again. I was sick when I woke up. I still haven't managed to get myself into the shower.

There is an incessant pounding in my head, like someone is hammering on my door. It doesn't stop, no matter how much water I chug. I remember the reason why I have spent the morning lying down is because of the cramps stabbing at me, doubling over when I stand up too straight in an attempt to reach the medicine cabinet.

The pounding stops momentarily, allowing me to crawl to my wardrobe and pull out a fresh pair of underwear, hastily shimmying them on so I can get back to my seat next to the toilet as quickly as possible.

"Fleur!" someone shouts, though I am sure it is my imagination. The pounding in my head begins to sound like someone is knocking on my door, until I realise that there is actually someone out there. "Fleur!" they shout again.

"Ja?" I croak in response, my throat burning. I don't think they hear me. I haul myself out of my bedroom and to the door, clutching onto the coat peg nailed beside it to keep me up while I unlock it. "Ja?" I try again, still with no response.

"Are you alright?" the voice asks, still very loud, from the other side of the door. I recognise it. Oh, it's Mapi. The woman sounds very Spanish.

Mapi sounds a little weird, but I don't think anything of it as I open the door and collapse into her arms. Strong arms hold me up, but when I catch sight of the tanned skin, I realise this is probably not who I thought it was.

I don't really care. I don't think I can stand up anymore.

Not-Mapi senses this, because she lifts me up despite my limbs being tangled around her inconveniently, and carries me to the sofa. Before she can set me down again, I remember the pain of getting bloodstains out of anything more than my bedding, and protest. "Het bed, niet hier," I say, words muffled by her neck as my face presses into it. "Niet hier!" I repeat, louder.

"No te entiendo," not-Mapi says, frustrated. She sounds like Alexia does. Am I that irritating? "Say in English!"

"No hablo inglés," I mutter, hoping not-Mapi understands that. "A mi cama." My Spanish lessons have been somewhat helpful, along with the full immersion. "Mi cama, aquí no. Mi cama, not-Mapi."

"Not-Mapi?" not-Mapi repeats, amused, carrying me around like I weigh nothing. If I didn't feel like I could die at any moment, I would be using this time to flirt. "Vale, vamos a tu cama." I nod towards the door at the end of the corridor.

She gasps at the state of it. I suppose it is a bit... Yeah.

I get dropped on the bed gently, before not-Mapi is flying around my bedroom, picking things up. She starts with my bag, folding up the kit strewn across the floor and packing it away inside. I listen to her, but bury my face in my pillow to shield my eyes from the light that is undoubtedly going to bring on a splitting headache. At least not-Mapi hasn't had to watch me throw up yet.

I shouldn't have thought that because now I feel sick. How can one person feel this nauseous?

I jolt upright, sprinting to the toilet just in time. "Fleur?" not-Mapi calls after me, following me inside my ensuite. She crouches down beside my limp body after I have finished dry-heaving, rubbing my back. I look up at her to thank her.

I feel sick again.

"Are you going to–?" Alexia asks me worriedly. I shake my head, feeling my cheeks heat up in sheer embarrassment. "There is blood everywhere."

"Ja," I reply coldly. We seem to realise that her hand is still pressed against my back at the same time, because she draws it back as I recoil. I miss it as soon as it is gone. "Yo sé."

"¿Tienes la regla?"

"Sí."

"¿Puedes hablar español?"

"Un poco." I smile at her, and she smiles back.

"Necesitas ducharte. I am going to clean your bed." She doesn't wait for me to answer before helping me up. I fumble with my shirt. "Déjame ayudarte," she whispers softly. I raise my arms, turning around. I probably should be doing anything but this, but she is here and I feel so incompetent. She lifts up my shirt, hopefully not staring at me while she does, and drops it to the floor.

There is a heavy silence. I stare at the bloodied floor. "I can do the rest." She takes that as her dismissal, leaving the bathroom and closing the door behind her.

I step under the boiling water with a numbness I have put in place to get through this surreal situation.

Firstly, why the fuck is Alexia here? Yesterday didn't exactly improve our bond. She is in her training kit, so she must have been sent to find me. Because she's the captain.

Why is Alexia helping me?

She doesn't like me. I stole her toothbrush. I tripped her up in a scrimmage. I shouted at her in front of everyone.

She drank from my bottle once and never apologised. Her dog barks whenever it goes past my front door. She always takes the apple I want in the canteen.

Alexia hates me and I hate her, but she is currently cleaning my bloody bed sheets and tidying my room. She helped me take off my shirt when it felt like it was stuck to me. She must have seen her toothbrush in my bag when she put my clothes in there, but hasn't said anything. I hate her, but her being here makes me feel a little bit better.

The water suddenly feels like it is drowning me. Jaimie is going to be so angry if I have a panic attack alone in the shower. I take a deep breath, putting in my tampon so that bleeding everywhere is one less thing to worry about. The open shower door makes the entire room steam up, and I have forgotten to switch the water off by the time I'm drying myself. The sound of the droplets thrashing against the floor rushes into my ears, biting at my brain.

Why is Alexia here? Why is the air so hard to breathe in? Why is the towel swallowing me?

So many questions and so little brain capacity to answer them with.

The floor is still dirty, and my wet feet smear the blood around even more. I inhale and exhale sharply, feeling my chest constrict in a way that is becoming too familiar. I look around the room, but the bright lights disorientate me and I find myself stumbling over to lean against the wall. "Alexia!" I shout, terrified. She appears in a matter of seconds. "I can't breathe."

The bathroom walls close in on me. She guides me into the bedroom – a bigger space. Somewhere it will take longer to feel suffocated in. I think I'm holding my breath.

"Breathe," she says as she sits me down on my bed. I nod. I'm fucking trying. She counts to ten slowly. I follow. I don't mean to hold her hand, but she lets me.

It takes a bit, but I calm down, and am back to having solely period-related problems. But at least I'm clean. Alexia can see that I am feeling better. She stops being so bright-eyed.

"Jona says we are both substitutes for the next match, unless you and I stop arguing. I still do not like you, but we should keep it away from the club from now on." Her voice returns the tone I am used to hearing her talk to me in. "We had a meeting with him today, instead of our midfield session. You missed it. That is why I am here."

"Don't flatter yourself," I say. "I missed the whole day. I'm not just avoiding you."

"You are unfit to train tomorrow," she declares, and though she has a point, it sounds like she is sabotaging my career. "I am going to alert the psychologist also."

"No!" I was hoping the woman has forgotten about our impending check-up on my mental health. "It's fine. This is unusual."

"I think that you should talk to her. She is very good." Alexia is speaking from experience. "I had these after my ACL." She only partially tore it, but it still prevented her from playing in the Euros. She made her come back in January, just as I joined the club. I bet it pushed her to get through the last leg of recovery – me signing. I probably would have been her replacement while she was out, or if she had fully ruptured her ligament. "I am sorry that you have them too. I saw you when you played against England. I thought that you–"

"I'm fine. My dead girlfriend is usually on the pitch when I play against England, and it was a bit of a shock. And today was because of hormones. I don't need a psychologist, because I'm not fucked up." Obviously, I've been to a few before. That was enough. I'm all sorted and problem-free.

"Claro, pero creo que–"

"No, Alexia." She is not my friend, she doesn't get to comment on my mental state. "Would you like to tell me off for missing training, or will you leave me alone now?" I snap at her. She flinches, but her eyes are dark when she looks at me. "Thank you for cleaning."

"You took my toothbrush."

"You can have it back." She smirks, telling me to keep it. "Okay. Get out."

She leaves promptly and I lie back against the new bedsheets. She put black ones on. Funny.

Still in my towel, I locate my phone and plug it in because it's on 1%. Once it's at fifteen, I call María and ask her to get me the strongest over-the-counter painkiller she can find. I also order food. And call my sister.

"Ja? What's wrong?" Jaimie answers, sounding like I've interrupted something. "Leah is on FaceTime." I can faintly hear the crackle of the video call in the background.

"Swear her to family secrecy," I say seriously. I need to tell Jaimie everything. Leah might find out the truth about me and Scarlett sooner or later.

"Okay, done. She is now an honorary de Voss." Cringing, I ignore how happy Jaimie sounds to say that. "Tell me what has happened. You sound absolutely terrible."

"My period came." Jaimie tenses. I can hear it in the silence. "It started yesterday. And I argued with Alexia in front of everyone. And then stormed off. And then went home."

"And then?"

"Bled everywhere and was sick – that Ajax jersey Papa bought us a couple years ago needs to be destroyed. And Alexia came over and then I had a panic attack."

"Sorry, what?" I should stop dropping bombshells like this on her over the phone now that she isn't too far away. At this rate, I might as well fly to Amsterdam and hide from everyone in Barcelona forever. "Alexia Putellas came over to do what?"

"I don't know, Jai, but she was helping me. And then she suggested I get therapy. So I shouted at her, and basically told her to fuck off." It was weird. Today has been so weird. "I hate her."

"Leah says that you have a very intense life," Jaimie relays, and it's her lack of input that worries me. I know I tried, but I haven't forgotten what she said in the café about me having a... No, I can't even think it. "Did she help you with your panic attack?"

I remember how calming it felt to let her take charge of the situation. It was like I felt safe. "Yes," I answer, much to my own surprise.

"Did you thank her?"

"No, because–"

"You don't hate her as much as you think you do, Fleur." What? Jaimie is being crazy. "In fact, I think you are starting to not hate her at all." 

notes: 

another action-packed one

there are lots of other languages in here, and i don't think it's necessary to translate everything but here are some 

het bed, niet hier = the bed, not here (dutch)

no te entiendo = i don't understand you

mi cama, aquí no = my bed, not here  (spanish)

tienes la regla? = have you got your period? 

necesitas ducharte = you need to shower

déjame ayudarte = let me help you

oh and mercadona is a supermarket that is fucking everywhere in spain, and i like to imagine that the taxi driver was in the doghouse already and was supposed to have done the shopping before his wife got home 

as you can see, we have moved onto the dramatic part of the plot

thanks for reading xx